


Connor McKinley and the Gift of Time

by taptaf



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Magic, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Unforgivable Curses (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:00:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taptaf/pseuds/taptaf
Summary: They meet on the train.“There’s not enough room anywhere else,” the boy explains, stepping into his compartment. “Do you mind?”Kevin lifts his head from the window, eyeing the other boy over. He does not look very smart or clever, standing there with an armful of Chocolate Frogs and a sugar quill between his teeth. If anything, he looks rather foolish. When he smiles, Kevin notices his teeth are blue. Jelly slugs, his mind supplies; and suddenly he feels very hungry.





	Connor McKinley and the Gift of Time

**I**  
  
**Present Day  
**

Coming here was a bad idea.

Connor McKinley knows this, the second a glass of white wine is placed upon the table. He does not even need to look up to know who it belongs to. 

“McKinley.” The man sits across from him, ducking his head to try and capture Connor’s gaze. When it does not work, the man sighs. “You could at least award me the courtesy of a hello, yes? I didn’t come all this way to watch you sulk.”

Now it’s Connor’s turn to sigh; “Sorry.” His own Butterbeer remains untouched, as it has for the past twenty-minutes. Connor is not entirely convinced he wanted it for anything other than warming his hands. Still, he thinks he might have lapped up the foam had he been left alone for just a moment longer. “Hello.”

“That’s better.” The man leans back, and Connor finally looks up. It’s hard not to smile as he’s met with a familiar, arrogant smirk; and even though he knows it is a very bad idea, Connor allows himself to lean forward, sliding his drink out of the way so Connor can take hold of his hands. They are thinner than his own; smoother. Perfectly trimmed nails, and flawless skin. Sometimes, it is hard for Connor to believe the stories he’s been told over countless drinks and dinners.

 _You still haven’t heard the worst of it,_ the man always says, against Connor’s ear; _the things I could tell you…_

But Connor does not want to know. It would be too painful; too relevant. He wants to pretend their pasts don’t exist. That they never did. It’s enough to sit across from someone who hurts as much as he does; to share the occasional shag while thinking about the person they’d rather be with.

They have that in common, at least. A penchant for pretending, in which Connor has managed to find moments of genuine pleasure. If nothing else, he has someone who understands him and needs him and maybe, in his own, convoluted way, even _likes_ him.   

“A smarter man would’ve moved on,” Connor says, finally, watching his thumb trail over the man’s knuckles. “Or tried to, anyway.”

“You’re a man in love. There’s nothing smart about that.”

“Wonderful,” Connor deadpans. “So, you agree, I’m an idiot.”

“No. Just impatient. Like _him_ ,” the man says, lowering his voice. Connor knows he’s not referring to Kevin. “But unlike him, one day you will have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“And you?” Connor closes his eyes as the man presses his mouth to Connor’s knuckles, knowing the conversation is over.

“I have something for you.”

Connor looks up. Not for the first time, he finds himself wondering how anyone with eyes like this could have been so utterly awful. They are beautiful. This man’s soul is beautiful, too, if a little damaged. Beautiful in its imperfections, then.

“You didn’t have to,” Connor says. “You being here is more than enough.”

“I’m well aware.” The man flashes a rare smile as he reaches into his robes, pulling out a small box, wrapped in brown paper; “Happy Christmas.” He stands, wrapping a scarf around his neck. “I’ll advise you not to open that until you are home.”

Connor watches him with unexpected remorse. “Where are you going? You haven’t even finished your drink, yet.”

“I have business to attend to,” the man says. “My son.”

“Right,” Connor says, forcing a smile. He knows it’s a lie. “Tell him I said hello?”

“Of course. And McKinley… _Connor_ …thank you. This has been delightful. Every second of it.”

An odd thing to say, but Connor is used to the man’s idiosyncrasies, so he does not question his meaning. Instead, they share a look; the sort of look that says everything and nothing, and then he’s gone and Connor is alone.  
  
  


**II**

**Ten Years Earlier  
**

They meet on the train.

“There’s not enough room anywhere else,” the boy explains, stepping into his compartment. “Do you mind?”

Kevin lifts his head from the window, eyeing the other boy over. He does not look very smart or clever, standing there with an armful of chocolate frogs and a sugar quill between his teeth. If anything, he looks rather foolish. When he smiles, Kevin notices his teeth are blue. Jelly slugs, his mind supplies; and suddenly he feels very hungry.

“No,” Kevin says, sweeping a hand towards the seat across from him. “Not if you share some of that, anyway.”

The boy nods, seemingly pleased, dropping his sweets onto the opposite bench before sitting on the floor. He’s facing them; and from this angle, Kevin can see the freckles on the back of his neck.

“Jelly slugs or licorice wands, if you have them,” Kevin specifies, holding out a hand. It rests against the other boy’s shoulder. “I don’t really like chocolate.”

The boy turns and stares at Kevin with comically wide eyes. They’re very blue. Like his teeth. “I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like chocolate, before.” He frowns, reaching into his robes. “That doesn’t seem very normal.”

“I never claimed to be normal,” Kevin points out, pleased when a few orange slugs end up in his palm. Sour tangerine has always been his favorite, but for some reason he only ever ends up with very cherry. His brother, Jack, says it’s because Kevin is cursed. It’s quite possible.

“That’s true,” the boy agrees, and then starts to open his chocolate frogs. He is very meticulous, Kevin notices; carefully peeling them back so the frog can leap out at its leisure. A few end up in Kevin’s hair, with others jumping out into the corridor to the delight of other students. It is apparent the boy is only after the cards.

“My brother collects those,” Kevin says, sliding off his seat so he and the other boy are sitting shoulder to shoulder.  “He’s got a stack this big of mountain trolls.” Kevin moves his hands, so they’re about twelve inches apart. The other boy glances at him quickly, snorting in amusement before returning to his task. 

“I don’t care about mountain trolls,” he explains, dropping one box to the ground, so he can pick up another. “It’s Harry Potter, I’m after.”

Kevin rolls his eyes; “ _Everyone_ wants Harry Potter. Do you really want to be like everyone else?”

The boy shrugs; “I wouldn’t mind that, actually.” The last of his boxes contains an Alberta Toothill card, which he adds to the pile on the floor. “Not at all.”

It is unusual to hear someone say they want to be the same as other people, when Kevin grew up believing there was nothing worse to wish for. Why be ordinary, when you could be extraordinary? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s selling yourself short, before you even step off the train. Kevin wonders why this boy ever bothered getting on. “Well, _I_ would,” he comments, putting voice to his thoughts. “Of course, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t be.”

“Oh?” The boy turns his head, biting the legs off a rogue chocolate frog to still its movement; “Why’s that?”

“Because,” Kevin says, simply, and leaves it at that.

“Because.” The boy laughs, stuffing the rest of the frog into his mouth, before standing up. His cards remain on the floor, seemingly forgotten. “Well, that certainly clears things up.” He rolls his eyes. Kevin’s fingers twitch, and the boy’s eyes narrow. “Going to hex me?” he asks, moving to stretch out on the now-empty bench. “Feel free. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s done it.”

Kevin rolls his eyes, again, not even entertaining the idea. He is too busy licking jelly slug slime off the palm of his hand and staring out the window as the country passes by in a blur of abstract color. Seven years, and Kevin is still taken by the beauty of this place.

“Connor McKinley,” the boy says, unprompted, sticking a hand in Kevin’s face.

“Kevin,” he says, leaning away from it. It’s not like he’s going to shake Connor’s hand; what with how he just spent the last few minutes licking his own palm. “Price.”

The boy, Connor, smiles as he drops his hand. He does not seem bothered over Kevin not wanting to take it, giving Kevin a sense of relief. It would be annoying to get into a conversation regarding manners when there are far more interesting things to talk about – like how this boy seems to be around the same age as Kevin, and yet Kevin has never seen him before.

“You wouldn’t have,” Connor explains, running a finger along the neck of his tie to loosen it. “I’m new this year, and yet to be sorted. I’m a transfer,” he explains. “From Ilvermorny.”

Kevin raises his eyebrows. He is aware of Ilvermorny, having almost gone there, himself. _It will be safer_ , his mother had whispered one night, after tucking him into bed. _And it will get you away from all this_. This. His name; who his father is. The reason Kevin can’t be trusted to do anything good, let alone anything great. It had been tempting, at first; but in the end, Kevin refused. He wanted to prove everyone wrong; wanted to show them he could do something incredible, regardless who his father is.  _I’m not him_ , Kevin told his mother; _I’ll never be_.

“I see,” Kevin says, crossing his legs. He is still sitting on the floor but can’t be bothered to get up. He is too full of jelly slugs, which are wriggling in his stomach and making him feel rather sick. “Why?”

“Because,” Connor says, simply, an echo of Kevin’s earlier words. He grins, and Kevin can’t help but smile back. It feels a bit like having a friend; easy smiles and easier conversation. They have no shortage of things to talk about, as it happens, and by the time they reach their destination, Kevin feels as though he’s known Connor for all his life.

“Maybe you’ll be sorted into Slytherin,” Kevin says, embarrassingly hopeful, as he readies to disembark from the train.

“Maybe,” Connor agrees, crossing his fingers. “Guess we’ll just wait and find out.”

*

 _Ravenclaw_!

The hat sorts Connor before it’s even on the boy’s head. Kevin can’t help the feeling of disappointment that settles in his stomach as Connor slides of the stool and strides over towards his House table. He’s smiling. Kevin wishes he wasn’t.

“Bad luck, huh?” Connor frowns, dropping onto the bench across the aisle from Kevin. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, though?”

“Yeah,” Kevin says. “We’re in the same year, so it’s kind of inevitable.”

Connor smiles at that, baring his blue teeth, again. “I’m glad.” Connor looks like he means it, bringing color into Kevin’s cheeks, before turning towards his new Housemates. Kevin stares at the back of his head.

“See something you like, Price?”

Kevin turns, slowly, readying himself for the insults that fall from Neeley’s lips. They are nothing he has not heard before: Death Eater scum, Blast-Ended Skrewt (the most asinine of slights) and now _Queer_ has been thrown into the mix. Kevin wishes he cared more.

It is everyone against him, most days, as though he is somehow singlehandedly responsible for the smearing of Slytherin’s name. It is exhausting; and hypocritical, considering Kevin knows without question Neeley’s father was an _actual_ Death Eater – and if anyone is responsible for smearing anything, it’s the Death Eaters.

If Neeley did not talk about his father in the past-tense, Kevin thinks he would throw that fact in Neeley’s stupid face because it bothers him none of his Housemates like him, when he is no better – nor worse – than the rest of them. But for all his supposed slights, Kevin can’t bring himself to speak ill of the dead, regardless who – or what – they were when they were alive; and perhaps that, out of everything, is his biggest flaw. Kevin is a Slytherin; he does not think he should care so much, and yet he often finds himself putting others above himself, even when they’re unforgivably stupid. His father calls him pathetic, weak and ill-sorted; but his mother calls him strong-minded and clever, which Kevin prefers.

He adores his mother; and Connor seems to agree with her assessment of him, because he’s always searching Kevin out. Kevin pretends to be annoyed, sometimes, but inwardly he’s pleased. It’s been a long time since he’s had anyone he could consider a real friend, and even if it _is_ a bit embarrassing to be knocked off your broomstick by a bludger because you’re too busy scanning the crowd for a familiar face, seeing Connor’s smile once he finds it makes all the cracked ribs worth it.

“I’m impressed,” Connor says, from his seat beside Kevin’s hospital bed. There are chocolate frogs in his lap; Kevin is starting to think his friend has a problem. “I’ve never seen anyone fall from the sky with less grace.”

“Gee,” Kevin deadpans, wincing as he moves to sit up. “Thanks.”

Connor just smiles, starting a new pile of cards that seem to disappoint him. It’s a bit peculiar, Kevin thinks, because if Connor wants to stare at Harry Potter that badly, he only needs to read the _Daily Prophet_. The man’s face is plastered on at least ten pages, every single day, regardless it’s been twelve years since the man’s done anything notable.

Kevin’s father incendio’s the _Prophet_ every time his brother dares to bring one into the house. _I just wanted the scores_ , Jack always laments, while sifting through the ashes. Kevin never understood his father’s distaste for the paper until fourth year, when Neeley trip jinxed him down a flight of stares and shouted _exactly_ why. Overwhelmed, Kevin had fired off a stinging hex that hit Neeley in the junk and earned himself an enemy; though, he thinks Neeley might have already been one by then, but it felt better for there to be a reason.

“I didn’t know you played Quidditch,” Connor says, pulling Kevin from his reverie. “You never told me.”

“You didn’t ask,” Kevin shrugs. “Besides, I’m not that good. Clearly.” An absolute lie, but he thinks it would be best for Connor to stay out of the stands if _this_ is what happens when he’s there.

Kevin is the best Chaser in Slytherin, a fact even Neeley can’t deny, much as he might like to. It’s the only time the two of them get along. Whenever they win a game, Kevin can count on a punch to the shoulder and a shove into the wall. Affectionate comradery. Of course, it never lasts very long, but Kevin is glad for the break from Neeley’s pestering all the same.

“So, you don’t have to waste your time coming to any games,” he continues. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Connor agrees, opening a chocolate frog. “I don’t like sports, anyway. They’re pointless.” He ducks his head; “Well, the scenery is nice, but otherwise.”

It does not take very long for Kevin to suss out that Connor is not talking about the perfectly manicured lawns around the Quidditch pitch. His ears start to burn, which Connor unfortunately notices. He places the back of his hand to Kevin’s forehead, which Kevin thinks is rather kind.

“You’re burning up. I’ll ask Madam Pomphrey to give you a Pepper Up potion, then let you sleep. You’re no good to me sick like this. Who’s supposed to do my potions homework now?” 

“I guess you’ll have to do it, yourself,” Kevin says, grinning, when Connor throws him a finger.

*

Kevin is back to class just a few days later, sporting an impressive bruise beneath his left eye that wasn’t a result of the accident. He contemplated wearing the Muggle sunglasses Jack gave him for his fifteenth birthday, but decided he quite liked how the mark made him look.

 _Roguish_. Tough, even.

He wonders what Connor will think when he sees it. He’ll be mad, of course, because it was human-inflicted, but maybe he will agree that it gives Kevin a tempting air. Not that Kevin _wants_ to be tempting, or anything. He just wants to be noticed. By anyone, of course; no one specific.

But class starts, and Connor still isn’t there. Kevin chews on his quill, getting ink on the corner of his mouth. It’s not that he’s worried, because Connor is completely harmless, and no one has any issues with him; but he _is_ Kevin’s friend, and Neeley isn’t in class, yet, either.

“Alright, class, settle down.” Professor Slughorn hardly puts any effort into quieting the class, too involved in a side-conversation with James Church, whose father was a student of Slughorn’s back in ‘68 and is now a wandmaker in America. Kevin wishes his own father had a job in America, so he wouldn’t ever have to see him. From what little he knows of James, he assumes Mr Church’s absence is no great loss to _him_ , either.

Kevin finds himself getting lost in the thought of going home at Christmas and only having to deal with his mother, who loves him. The Christmas holidays are looming, and Kevin has already sent quite a few owls to his mother asking if she’d be absolutely alright with him staying at Hogwarts this year. She said yes in reply to the first one, but Kevin felt a need to make sure. So he kept sending them, until somewhere around his tenth owl, he received a Howler from his brother: STOP SENDING OWLS, YOU IDIOT, THE ROOF’S COVERED IN SHIT AND IM THE ONE THAT’S GOT TO CLEAN IT UP!”

It was embarrassing, to say the least, but did its intended trick. He hasn’t sent an owl since.

“Oh my gosh!” Connor drops into the seat beside him a moment later, startling Kevin from his thoughts. “I must’ve gotten lost eighteen times,” he says, clearly out of breath. His hair is plastered to his forehead in sweat, and his eyes look a little bit wild. “Stupid staircases. They should give you a map.”

“I always thought so, too, but I’m pretty sure it’s a conspiracy to hand out detentions.” Kevin allows himself a smile, which Connor easily returns saying nothing of Kevin’s eye. The situation is odd, to say the least. They’re weeks into term, and Connor has never gotten lost, before; and he always fusses over Kevin’s cuts and bruises. Kevin has a sinking feeling it has something to do with Neeley but does not ask. Instead, he plays along like it’s just another day; “I managed to get through all of fifth year without any, though. It helps if you get an early start.”

Connor exhales a laugh; “I might just sleep in the corridors, honestly.”

Kevin almost tells Connor it’s a terrible idea; that they’re cold, and dark, and the loneliness creeps up on you so suddenly you feel as though you could die from it – but chooses against it, because that would only open a line of questioning Kevin does not want to answer. For instance: what were you doing, sleeping in the corridors? Kevin would rather not think about it; and he’s certain Connor would rather not hear about it.

“I’m garbage at potions, you know.” Kevin does. Just three weeks ago, Connor filled the classroom with putrid smelling smoke that caused the entire class to vomit, this quarantining the classroom for a week. “Rumor has it you have a penchant for them, though, so I’m hoping you can help me pass. I want to be an Auror, and there’s no way I’ll get an Exceeds Expectations otherwise.”  

That’s news to Kevin. He had Connor pegged for a Healer, in all honesty, because he’s been rather good at tending to all of Kevin’s Neeley-inflicted injuries.

“Rumor, huh? Well, if you’re garbage in your sixth year, it’s probably hopeless, honestly.” Kevin tips his chin; “But I’ll do my best.” And then, because he has no idea who would have spoken so kindly of him, rumor or not; “…who told you that, anyway?”

For a moment, it seems as though Connor hasn’t heard him. He busies himself with his text, flipping through the pages with an impenetrable gaze. But then, right before Kevin asks again; “I have no idea. I’m new here, remember?”

“Not that new,” Kevin points out; and then, pressing: “Well, what did they look like?”

Connor sighs, closes his book and turns towards Kevin. “I don’t know. Tall…with red hair and blue eyes.”

“You literally just described yourself.”

“Did I?” Connor feigns surprise, and quite well. “Maybe I’m more like other people than I thought.”

Something doesn’t seem right, but before Kevin can pry any further, Professor Slughorn ends his swooning over Mr Church and starts his lecture. Kevin only half pays attention, far more interested in the boy standing beside him and worrying he’s been obliviated, or something. Connor is marking down every single word Slughorn says, even the extraneous ones, as though to miss even one would bring about a great devastation. It is peculiar, to say the least, if for no other reason than the first twenty minutes of class are about absolutely nothing at all. Kevin stopped caring about Slughorn’s cottage by the coast before he’d even started talking about it. Connor seems absolutely enraptured.

“Nothing he just said is gonna be on your N.E.W.T.s,” Kevin says, under a breath. “So, why are you so interested?” 

Connor shrugs, not looking up. Kevin is amazed he has any ink left. “I just think it’s something I might like to know.” He frowns; “Plus, it’s interesting.”

“Interesting.” Kevin snorts, drumming his fingers atop the table; “I’ve never heard anyone call Slughorn interesting.”

“Well, now you have.” Connor ducks his head, writing until his words drop off the end of his parchment. Once they do, he grabs Kevin’s and keeps on writing until his notes are halfway down the page.

“Um,” Kevin says, eloquently.

“It’s not like you were going to use it,” Connor taps the feather end of his quill against his chin, seemingly deep in thought. “Probably. Since you don’t find Slughorn very interesting.”

“True,” Kevin agrees. “But I need at least _some_ room for once we start brewing. Save me at least five inches, please.”

Connor snorts; “Five inches? Can’t do much with that, can you?”

Kevin knows Connor is using innuendo to try and be humorous, but it only sets Kevin’s teeth on edge. He has had to endure his House’s relentless teasing since Connor was sorted, though it feels a lot more like bullying than anything even mildly good natured. More than it just being cruel, Kevin does not appreciate people speculating over things he is not entirely sure of, himself. Neeley says he’s queer, but is he? Kevin isn’t sure; he’s never had to think about it before. Prior to Connor’s arrival, he spent all his time with an energetic boy named Arnold, who managed to get himself expelled during fifth year for touching dead birds on the sidewalk outside his parent’s house in Muggle London. He had the innate ability to breathe life back into them, without giving much more than a thought. He told Kevin in one of his more recent owls, that he’d hoped it would earn him some friends. Instead, it earned him a broken wand and expulsion. Kevin wonders why he hadn’t been enough for Arnold, but tries not to dwell.

Still, he misses him. Kevin thinks maybe he loved Arnold, in some sort of way, because he was the only person to see Kevin for Kevin, and not for who his father is. Only Arnold knows Kevin abhors Quidditch, cannot sleep without socks on, and wishes he had been born a Muggle or at the very least a Squib. Sometimes, Kevin thinks he hates Arnold, too; for getting expelled and removing himself from Kevin’s life, by extension. Things aren’t as easy, without Arnold around. Most days, they’re downright awful. He can’t even remember the last time he had a real, good laugh.

“Merlin,” Connor sighs, waving a hand in front of Kevin’s face to break Kevin of his reverie. “Where’d you go? I really need you to pay attention,” he lowers his hand, pointing towards his cauldron. There’s a slew of ingredients about the table: pearl dust, Moonstone, Ashwinder eggs, and -;

“Peppermint?” Kevin hates peppermint. The smell and the taste. He shifts a wary gaze towards Slughorn, who looks rather pleased with himself. “Amortentia,” Kevin says, earning himself a nod.

“Very good, Mr Price! Amortentia. Love potion. Dangerous stuff,” Slughorn beams, motioning for people to get started. “It’s only by some stroke of luck we’re able to brew it. Or the opposite of luck, perhaps.” He laughs, earning himself a few uncertain looks. “Time will tell which, as it so often does. Go on then; get started.”

“What do you think yours will smell like?” Connor does not look up from his parchment as he asks the question, his quill scratching furiously as he writes down Slughorn’s words. “I imagine mine will smell like chocolate, lake water, and Harry Potter.” He pauses, gnaws on the end of his quill; “Not just any lake water. Onondaga Lake water. It’s terribly polluted, but I used to go there a lot as a kid. Lights on the Lake,” Connor explains, like Kevin has any idea what that is.

“What does Harry Potter smell like?” Kevin does not know why he asks, because he couldn’t care less; but it is such a weird thing for Connor to assume his potion will smell like, considering he has never even met the man.

“Sweat, probably. Musk.” The corner of Connor’s mouth turns up, and Kevin grinds into his Moonstone just a little too hard. Shards scatter away from him.

“Musk,” he echoes, sweeping his dust back into a pile. “That’s disgusting, and I doubt it’s true. The way I heard it, Mr Potter has some cushy office job now, at the Ministry. If he smells like anything, it’s laziness and age.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we?”

Kevin can hardly wait; and says so, with a dramatic roll of the eyes.

*

Turns out, only some Hufflepuff named Nabulungi and Kevin are capable of brewing a viable love potion, and it takes everything in him not to flip his cauldron when Neeley strolls into class with just enough time left to “thank Merlin for that” since there’s “no way anyone could love Kevin, otherwise”.

“Don’t listen to him,” Connor says, under a breath. His hand comes to rest on Kevin’s shoulder, and it stays there as he leans in rather close to Kevin’s potion. Spirals of steam surround him as he inhales slowly and deeply, eyes fluttering shut as a lazy smile takes over his expression. “I smell chocolate and lake water,” he breathes, tightening his hold on Kevin. “And cinnamon.”

Kevin shrugs away from Connor’s touch, trying not to think of how that is his absolute favorite flavor; or how he sprinkled some on his cereal just this morning.

“Sounds disgusting,” he comments, slamming the lid on his cauldron when Connor tries to nudge him closer to it. Connor looks disappointed; but Kevin is not interested in what the potion might smell like to him, since it probably smells like nothing.

“You’re no fun,” Connor complains, rolling up his and Kevin’s parchment. “I told you what mine smelled like.”

“You told me what it would smell like, before we’d even made it,” Kevin points out, watching as Slughorn starts transferring Nabulungi’s potion into thin, glass phials. Connor sighs beside him, and Kevin cannot help but wonder if this bit of secrecy will be enough to lose him yet another friend.

“Fine,” he concedes. “If it means that much to you.”

Lifting the lid to his cauldron, Kevin leans in very close, eyes slipping shut as he inhales. Heat pools in Kevin’s stomach; it feels a bit like his insides have been wrapped in a flannel blanket and handed a mug of hot chocolate. “I smell campfire, new books, and…” Kevin frowns, but only slightly; “…a pub.”

“A pub?” Connor frowns, lifts his arm and smells his robes. “Why’s that?” Reaching around Kevin, he closes the lid, breaking Kevin of his infatuated stupor.

“Dunno,” Kevin says, lazily. “I mean, I _do_ like Butterbeer.”

“Then it should have smelled like Butterbeer,” Connor points out. “Why didn’t it?”

“How should I know,” Kevin says, blinking logic back into his brain. “Why did yours smell like a polluted lake? Sounds like we could both do a bit better for ourselves, honestly.”

Connor laughs, tapping Kevin’s nose with his rolled-up parchment. It feels a bit disparaging. “I like you, Kevin Price,” he says. “I’m glad there were no other seats on that train.” 

“Oh,” Kevin replies, dumbly. There are things, _feelings_ , he wants to put voice to but can’t. They’re lost somewhere in the back of his throat. So, he just stands there in silence, wishing more than anything that Connor was a Legilimens. He does not seem to be, however, because after a curious look, Connor turns on his heels and leaves.

“Thanks,” Kevin says, just a little too late. “Me, too.”

*

That night, Kevin writes a letter to Arnold:

_Hi, pal._

_Slughorn had us brewing love potions today, can you believe that? Aside from myself, only that girl you like was able to brew one. I heard her say it smelled like burnt strawberry cake with peanut butter icing, which is super specific and really disgusting, and since you’re the only person I know who actually eats that rubbish, I thought you might like to know. You should owl her, sometime. I have a feeling it would make her real happy._

_There’s a new kid. His name is Connor and he’s from America. He’s nice, enough, but he isn’t you. He’s not very energetic, and he doesn’t give hugs at all, and he’s shit at wizard chess. It’s not even a challenge. I’ve started playing with my eyes closed thinking it would help, but I still manage to beat him. It’s annoying. He’s also obsessed with finding himself a Harry Potter Chocolate Frog card, for some reason. I think he idolizes him, which is pathetic and common. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have one laying around, would you? Watching him open those boxes is starting to drive me mad, and honestly, I just want him to shut up about the man, already. Who cares about Harry Potter, anymore? Not me._

_Anyway. The real reason I’m writing is to tell you I won’t be home for Christmas. I just don’t want to deal with my dad right now, and Connor will be all alone if I don’t stay and I know how it feels to be lonely. I’m real sorry, Arnold, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Summer holiday isn’t that far off, and you can have me the whole entire time if you want. I’ll even watch one of those Muggle shows you’re always going on about. Sky Wars, or whatever.  I won’t even complain that it’s boring when it inevitably is. :)_

_Okay, I’m gonna end this letter, because it’s been a long day, and if we’re already brewing love potions, who knows what Slughorn will expect from us next._

_Write back when you get a chance._

_Kevin._

He stares at the letter for a while, before folding it up and stuffing it into an envelope. He and Arnold keep using the same one, sending it back and forth, for over a year now. Kevin no longer has to tell his owl who it’s for. As he seals it, Kevin wonders if he talked about Connor too much. He doesn’t want Arnold to get the wrong impression and think Kevin has replaced him. So, before his owl takes off, Kevin hastily scrawls on the back of the envelope: _I miss you, Best Friend_.

“Off you go,” he says, shooing his owl out the window.

 With nothing left to do, Kevin changes into his pajamas and crawls into bed, drawing the curtains. He stares up towards the canopy, letting his mind wander a bit. He thinks of a hundred excuses that might get him out of Quidditch practice and of his grandmother’s fruitcake, which he will not be forced to eat this year. He also thinks about Connor, even though he shouldn’t. He thinks about his measured way of speaking, and the way his robes are just an inch too short. How he’s always gnawing on a sugar quill – working it between his teeth, before licking it into oblivion. He thinks about that dopey look Connor got in his eyes, while smelling Kevin’s potion; and how he wishes, deep down, that look had been for him. _Maybe it was_ , Kevin tells himself; _I do like cinnamon. I’m also smart and really good looking_. Kevin smiles; it’s slow and lazy, his hand trailing down the front of his shirt, towards his pants. He closes his eyes; pretends it’s Connor’s, and silently casts a Muffliato. No one needs to hear this; Kevin isn’t even sure he wants to. 

It’s easy to get lost in his thoughts, like this. His bed his warm, his skin is warmer, and his mind is doing incredible things with what little information Kevin gives it. _What would Connor sound like_ , he wonders, _crying out my name?_

Turns out, it’s easier to imagine that he thought it would be. Connor’s voice is higher pitched, breathy like he can’t seem to catch it. Kevin swallows, slips his fingers beneath his waist band – but before he gets much further, the curtains to his bed pull open. Thankfully, his reflexes have always been sharp.

“Kevin!”

He sits up, pulling the blankets up to his chin. One of his dormmates, Schrader, is standing at the foot of his bed, looking nervous. He’s wringing his hands, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. Kevin sighs, grabs his wand and mutters a Finite Incantatem.

“What’s going on,” he asks, embarrassed. He wonders if he hadn’t cast a Muffliato at all, and Schrader heard something. Did he say Connor’s name out loud?

“Your friend is outside, clawing at the walls, trying to get it in.” He looks over his shoulder, lowering his voice; “Neeley isn’t around, so you might want to take care of it, before he gets back.” An awkward silence passes between them, within which Kevin manages to think of the most hideous things in order to calm himself down.

“Okay,” he says, throwing off his blankets. “I’ll handle it.”

Turns out **it** , is Connor in his pajamas, quite literally clawing at the corridor walls outside their dormitory. Kevin thought Schrader had been exaggerating, but Connor’s nails are broken and there’s blood on the stone. “Connor,” he says, carefully. “What are you doing?”

“I needed to see you.” Connor reaches out, takes Kevin’s face between his hands and leans in very close. “I couldn’t go on another second without seeing this pretty face.” He sighs happily; “You’re perfect.”

Kevin beams in appreciation before acknowledging the absurdity of Connor being down here, since he shouldn’t be. Nor should he be clawing at the walls, and touching Kevin’s face. They both could get detention, for this, or worse: Neeley could find them and hold this moment over their heads for eternity and Kevin isn’t sure how much more harassment he can take.

“You should go back to bed,” he says, taking hold of Connor’s hands. They’re clammy and warm. “We can always talk about how perfect I am tomorrow, if you like.”

“No.” Connor frowns, but continues to look at Kevin all moony-eyed. He licks his lips, and Kevin tries to think of anything other than how much he’d like to feel them pressed against his face. “We need to talk about it _right now_. I made a list, and if I don’t read it to you, I’ll die.”

“Um,” Kevin fully steps out into the corridor, letting the door shut behind him. It’s always cold in the dungeons, and a chill runs swiftly up his spine. He should have put his slippers on. “Sure, yeah, alright.”

Connor looks absolutely thrilled. He pulls out a rolled-up parchment which touches the floor once it’s unraveled. A bit excessive, Kevin thinks, but decides to hold off on any judgement until Connor works his way through it.

Clearing his throat, Connor stands a bit taller; “You, Kevin Price, are absolutely perfect for no less than the following six-hundred and fifty-four reasons:

  * You have the whitest teeth in the Wizarding world
  * You always smell nice, even after a Quidditch match
  * You talk with food in your mouth, which is very poor manners, but somehow you make it endearing
  * You can’t pronounce “bagel” correctly. It’s bay-gul Kevin; not bag-ill. But that’s something we can work on, together, when we’re married, and you come to New York
  * You have big hands. Big feet. And probably a _really_ big –“



“Okay! Okay, I get it,” Kevin says, flushing hotly. “You’re right, of course, but _please_ don’t say it out loud. The portraits listen.”

Connor smirks, leans in real close and whispers against Kevin’s ear; “Let them.”

And then something happens. Something wonderful. Connor walks him back against the cool, stone wall and kisses him. It’s Kevin’s first; but even if he did have other kisses to compare it to, he thinks this would be the best without question. Connor’s mouth is just as he expected: warm and wet and it tastes a bit like Butterbeer, which Kevin is all too eager to drink up.

“What’s gotten into you,” he asks, reaching up to toy with the hem of Connor’s robes, which hang open. “You were going on and on and on about Harry Potter during dinner, but now here you are going on about me.”

“Harry Potter is nothing compared to you,” Connor replies, pressing his hips against Kevin. “You’re everything. You’re _perfect_.”

“Say that, again,” Kevin says, a bit breathless. “The part about Harry Potter.”

Connor grins, baring teeth; “He’s _nothing_.”

Satisfied, Kevin slips his hands past the coarse fabric of Connor’s robes and curls his hands around Connor’s warm waist, stroking his sides restlessly while they kiss again. It’s clumsy and eager, and when Connor bites his lip by mistake, Kevin finds that he likes it.  He groans, pulling Connor closer.

“Well, what do you know; looks like I was right.”  There’s slow clapping; quiet, in the distance. It’s easy to ignore in favor of keeping this going, so Kevin does. He tugs Connor’s hair back, latches onto his neck with an eager mouth and finally, unfortunately, opens his eyes when Connor cries out.

Neeley is stood right behind them. He’s holding something; a glass phial, which he shakes once their gazes meet. Dread pools in the pit of Kevin’s stomach. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

“See, Price. What did I tell you? No one could love you without it.” He smirks, pulling out his wand; “Not even him.”

Kevin thinks he should have known; wonders if he _did_ know but was content to just pretend for a while. It was nice, fleeting as it was, to be wanted. “Shut up,” he sneers, eyes flickering down to where Neeley’s hand curls around his wand. His own is back in his dormitory, which is a terrible place for one’s wand. Fortunately, even in his love sickness, Connor was smart enough to bring his. “Shut up; shut up; shut up!” Kevin pushes Connor out of the way, while extracting Connor’s wand from his pocket. He points it at Neeley, hand trembling. “Why can’t you ever just leave me alone?”

Neeley fires off a wordless spell, which Kevin blocks without much thought. “You know why.”

“That isn’t my fault!”

“Close enough!” Neeley narrows his eyes; “Perfect Kevin Price. That’s what your little boyfriend called you, isn’t. Well, guess what? You’re _not_ perfect! You’re just like your father, you’re –“

Kevin stops listening. Neeley talks too much, even now, when their wands are pointed at the other’s throat. His eyes flicker to the phial of Amortentia, which mocks him; then to Connor, who looks downright stricken. More out of fear, than of love, by now, and Kevin knows he must make a choice: continue this charade or end it.

There isn’t much of one to make.

“Diffindo!” He watches as a jet of pink light hits Neeley, just beneath his wrist. Neeley cries out, releasing his hold on the phial which shatters against the cold, stone floor. “Targeo,” Kevin mutters, pointing his wand at the mess; then “Expelliarmus!”

Neeley’s wand flies towards him. He catches it, and Connor swoons. Kevin wishes he could be flattered, but he is the furthest thing from it. Besides, Connor’s adoration isn’t genuine, anyway. He knows that now. “Don’t talk to me about my father,” Kevin hisses, throwing Neeley’s wand away from them both. He steps forward, until he and Neeley are only a foot apart. “We aren’t the same.”

But Neeley only laughs, blood seeping through the fingers that wrap around the gash on his forearm. He’s hunched over, clearly in pain, but the look on his face is wicked as he raises his arm; “Aren’t you?”

“No,” Kevin says, It sounds like he’s lying, even to himself; “I’m not.”  
  


**III**

**Present Day  
**

Connor’s flat is small; over a Muggle bookstore, with wooden floors and peeling wallpaper. It is too warm in summer and too cold in winter, with hot water only sometimes. Connor does not use magic, here. Because he can’t, and because he does not really want to. Sometimes, it is enough to pretend to be normal.

His lover calls it quaint, which is kinder than saying it’s pathetic. The first time Connor brought him here, he was too drunk to be embarrassed; but as the sun pulled over the horizon and his stomach ended up the floor, it took everything within him not to Incendio the place to the ground.

There is a picture on the nightstand, one his lover turns around every time they fuck. _Out of respect_ , he always lies, smoothly, before binding Connor’s wrists to the bed. His lover is astoundingly insecure, considering, but Connor understands because he does not like looking into the face of _his_ past either.

Sometimes, it is easier to pretend they don’t exist.

Grabbing a bottle of firewhisky, Connor turns the frame back around. The picture is of his seventh year at Hogwarts, in the library. Kevin Price is laughing around on a mouthful of candy. There’s a Jelly Slug stuck to the front of his shirt, and one trying to slither from the corner of his mouth. They were always his favorites; especially the orange ones. He remembers gifting Kevin a bag that only had red ones, once, and you would have thought Connor bat bogey hexed Kevin’s mother, with how despondent he became. How petulant Kevin _always_ was, when he did not get his way.

Shrugging off his jacket, the package from earlier falls to the floor. He picks it up. The twine surrounding it is tied in an intricate knot that does not want to give. It’s the wizard equivalent of using too much Scotch tape, he supposes, and the thought brings a smile to Connor’s face. Nothing from his lover is ever easy; he relishes making Connor work for things – his smiles, his pleasure; and, it seems, his Christmas presents. In the end, Connor finds himself resorting to magic. Somehow, he thinks that was the point.

Beneath the paper, is a wooden box and a folded piece of parchment. Connor reaches for that first. It’s monogrammed, and bears only two words: _Good Luck_.

Curious, he thinks; but when Connor pulls out the gift, he understands.

 _Good Luck_.

Connor knows he’s going to need it.

 

**IV**

**Ten Years Earlier  
**

When Kevin was younger, he and Jack would drink themselves sick with firewhisky, which they’d sneak up to their bedroom once their parents were asleep. His brother had a loose tongue while drunk, and through him Kevin learned his parents’ darkest secrets.

 _They’re terrible people, Kevin_ , he’d say. _Especially father_.

Kevin never took him seriously. Their father was strict, sure, but he’d never had reason to think the man terrible. Nor his mother, who was the kindest woman Kevin had ever met. But such is the problem with youth, he supposes. You see what you want to see; what will protect you from the irreparable damage of youth. Until one day, when your eyes are forced wide open…AFTER TEN-YEAR SILENCE NEW INFORMATION OPENS DEATH EATER INVESTIGATION AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC...and you are no longer young.

*

Kevin and Connor sit in the library, alone, save for Madam Pince who pays them no mind at all. Everyone has gone home for the holidays, save for a few stragglers who either have nowhere to go, or prefer not to go there if they do. Kevin falls into the latter category, and Connor the first. He considers himself lucky they were able to move past the whole _love potion incident_ , as Connor so mildly puts it, because without this friendship Kevin would be alone; and there is nothing worse than being alone at Christmas.

“I think I’ll miss my mom’s Christmas pudding the most.” Kevin waves his wand, attempting to transfigure a copy of _Men Who Love Dragons Too Much_ into his favorite dessert, disappointed when the pages slough apart into a mess of paper pulp.

“You can’t make food appear out of nowhere,” Connor says, reaching across the table. He uses his hands to shape the mess into a pudding, unfit for consumption but decent to look at. “But maybe if you pretend hard enough…”

Kevin snorts, putting the book back to rights with a flick of his wand. “I’m not putting paper in my mouth,” he says, sliding the book to the end of their table. “Last year, Neeley tried to stuff an entire Defense essay down my throat, and I found I don’t have a taste for it.”

“Kevin.” Connor is staring at him with something akin to pity, and it sets Kevin’s teeth on edge. He does not want to be pitied. There is no reason for it.

“Look,” he says. “I don’t want to get into it, but if our situations were reversed, I don’t think I’d be acting much different.”

 “Yes, you would be,” Connor says. “You’re better than that.”

“I’m not,” Kevin replies, twirling his wand between his fingers. “You saw what happened during _the incident_ ,” he says glumly. “If you hadn’t tackled me to the ground and smothered me in kisses, who knows what would have happened.”

“Well, we can’t know for sure,” Connor agrees, reaching to still Kevin’s hand. “But I can guess.”

Kevin considers him for a moment. They have only known each other for a handful of months, yet Connor often acts like he knows Kevin inside and out. Like he knows what Kevin would do, versus what he would not. Sometimes, Kevin wonders if Connor is truly a Legillimens. He likes to think so; it would mean Kevin is not half as bad as he thinks he is, because Connor can see through all the muddled thoughts to find the ones that matter. The ones that show Kevin to be good, and not - _not_.

On a whim, and out of sheer curiosity, he allows himself to think the most perverse thoughts about Connor to see if he gets a reaction. When he doesn’t, Kevin puts the thought to rest. Perhaps Connor is just very astute.

“Well, I appreciate your faith in me.” He smiles; “Now, can we _please_ open presents?”

A blatant subject-change, but thankfully Connor says nothing about it. “Of course.” Connor slides his gift for Kevin across the table. It’s a long, flat box, wrapped in green paper. “You know, since you’re a Slytherin.”

Kevin rolls his eyes. “Not all Slytherins like green, you know. It’s just by chance it’s always been my favorite color.”

“Sure.” Connor smiles. Kevin smiles back, then hands Connor a small box wrapped in old parchment. It’s tied in red ribbon and sealed with silver wax.

“Go on,” he urges. “Open it.”

Connor takes his time, just to be annoying. Kevin bounces his knees, impatiently, fingers digging into the tops of his thighs while he waits. He is not really one for sentiment and does not consider this gift to be that; but with how Connor’s eyes go soft once the box is finally opened, he can’t help but wonder if it somehow actually _is_.  

Connor holds up Harry Potter’s Chocolate Frog card, laughing through a sudden burst of tears. It’s an odd display of gratitude Kevin does not fully understand, but relishes. “Thank you, it’s perfect.” Connor stares at the card for a while, presumably until Harry Potter is no longer there to look at, before sliding it into his pocket. Kevin tries not to think about what Connor might have wanted it for.

“You next,” Connor says, motioning towards the box. “I hope you like it.”

Kevin wastes no time, tearing the package open. It is too small to be a new broomstick, yet too long to be a book. He guesses its licorice wands and jelly slugs; or maybe a new pair of socks. But reaching inside, his fingers brush against something that feels suspiciously like parchment. “What’s this?” he asks, removing a tightly wound scroll. It’s tied in silver ribbon.  

“Open it and see.” Connor nods towards it; “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Kevin pulls at the ribbon, watching as the scroll unravels. He immediately recognizes the elegant script.  “Connor,” he says, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t understand.”

“Everything I’ve written there is true.” Connor reaches across the table to pinch Kevin’s cheek, before taking back the parchment; “And I’m not even under the influence this time.” He laughs, then clears his throat; “Kevin Price, you are perfect for no less than the following ten reasons:

  * You’re intelligent, clever, and determined, with enough bravery to match that of any Gryffindor.
  * You’re kind and willing to help anyone who needs it, regardless who they are or what their story is.
  * You have so much ambition. If anyone is going to make it through the Auror program, it’s you.
  * You’re patient. Every time I blow up the potions classroom, you help me figure out what went wrong, even when you’re throwing your guts up.
  * You give people the benefit of the doubt, even when they clearly don’t deserve it.
  * You’re really _really_ good looking. But you’re also humble, and don’t let it define you.
  * The smile you save for me and Arnold is blinding.
  * Your heart is always in the right place, even when you do something wrong.
  * You’re _good_ , Kevin.
  * And you are nothing, at all, like your father.”



In an instant, Kevin is clamoring over the table, stealing Connor’s words with a kiss. His hands twist in the fabric of Connor’s shirt as he pulls him closer. Months of wanting and needing and _hoping_ have made kissing Connor the easiest and most natural thing in the world. It feels bloody marvelous; and Kevin allows himself to get lost in the warm press of Connor’s mouth against his own.

Connor’s hands come up to tug on Kevin’s tie as he deepens the kiss, hungry and demanding. Kevin replies in kind, leaning back and pulling Connor with him. He hears the scroll tear beneath their movements but doesn’t care. All he cares about, is making this moment last for as long as he possibly can, already knowing it could never be enough.

When Connor breaks the kiss to catch his breath, Kevin lets his hands smooth over Connor’s shoulders. “Looks like you found an eleventh reason I’m perfect.” He grins, licks his lips, then leans up for another kiss. Someone clears their throat behind them.  

“Are you boys quite done?” Madam Pince looms over them, arms crossed. She’s holding her wand and has a dangerous look in her eyes that makes Kevin nervous.

“No,” Connor says, the same time Kevin says “Yes.”

“You should listen to your friend,” she says to Connor, before firing a stinging hex to get them off the table. Kevin yelps, Connor laughs, and Madam Pince simply stalks off, muttering under her breath about _inconsiderate teenaged wizards…_  

“If we were inconsiderate, we’d have taken our clothes off,” Connor says, loud enough to earn him another hex. “Wouldn’t we have?”

He looks almost hopeful as he asks, and before Kevin even knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbing Connor’s hand and leading him down to the dungeons; to his favorite shadowed alcove, where he goes when he needs time to think.

“No one ever comes here,” Kevin says, crowding Connor up against the wall. 

Connor grins, reaching for Kevin’s belt; “Let’s hope not.” 

*

Kevin feels different towards the end of Christmas holiday. He feels older, in some ways; and younger, in others. He can no longer look at Connor without smiling and has gotten rather good at a myriad of cleaning spells. His fingers itch to touch someone else, for once; and his actions carry far more weight than they used to. 

Connor says he wants to be together; wants Kevin to stay out of trouble, so they can be. Kevin wants to promise, but can’t; so, they spend what’s left of the holiday working on defensive spells, so Kevin can lay off the hexes a bit.

“You _both_ don’t have to get into trouble,” Connor points out, showing off his Patronus. “Only _he_ does.”

A Nightjar. That’s what Connor’s Patronus is. Kevin imagines his would be something more impressive, like a wolf, if he were able to produce one; but the most he’s managed so far is a spray of white sparks that die before hitting the ground. It’s embarrassing. He considers himself one of the more powerful wizards in seventh year, so the fact he can’t manage something a _transfer_ from _Ilvermorny_ can is frustrating.

Connor tries to placate him - _you’re just distracted_ \- as he sinks to his knees, but Kevin thinks losing your virginity isn’t the sort of happy memory his magic needs to feed from. Unfortunately, it’s all that he has. 

“You’ll manage when it counts,” Connor says. Kevin thinks Connor looks a bit pained, when he says it. “Most people do.”

Most people, but probably not Kevin and Connor seems to know that. It’s in the words he doesn’t say. In his eyes. They’re sad and shadowed; like they’ve seen something they wish they could forget. Kevin wants to know what that was, but before he gets the chance to ask, Connor’s mouth is on his and all rational thought leaves Kevin’s head. 

He thinks Connor does this on purpose: silences him with a clever mouth, so Kevin can’t ask questions. The more time that passes, the more mysterious Connor becomes. Kevin wants to suss him out; wants to _solve_ him. It’s hard, though, when Connor holds the upper hand. Kevin is weak. When Connor says come, Kevin comes, trailing after him like he’s been Imperiused.

“You haven’t been,” Connor reassures him one afternoon, over tankards of Butterbeer. “I’m just that good.”

“That’s _exactly_ the sort of thing someone who’s Imperiused me would say.” Kevin licks froth off his upper lip, watching Connor carefully. “I’m on to you.”

“Are you, really?” Connor dips a finger into his tankard, circling it around in his Butterbeer. His eyes never leave Kevin’s. They are dark; hungry. Kevin is still not used to being wanted. It makes him nervous and thrilled all at once.

“Stop playing games,” he warns, releasing the hold on his tankard. “It’s dangerous.”

“Is it?” Withdrawing his finger, Connor brings it to his mouth, licking the sweetness from his skin. Kevin is suddenly glad for the thickness of his winter robes.

“I want to be an Auror,” Kevin says, suddenly, still focused on Connor’s finger. “I can’t do things that will get me into trouble. I need a clean record, if I want to get into the program.”

Connor nods, already aware. “And _I_ need to go to the bathroom.” He stands, giving Kevin a pointed look, before retreating from their table. It is only a second after he’s shut the door that it opens, again. Kevin pushes Connor against the sink.

“ _Colloportus_ ,” he whispers, very close to Connor’s ear. The door locks, and he’s fumbling his way into Connor’s pants with unsteady fingers. His eyes slide closed and he focuses all his attention and energy on the motion of his wrist. Kevin’s touch is light and tentative; relatively tame, for once. Connor sighs, happy, tipping his head to the side as Kevin leads a trail of kisses down the column of his neck. 

“One day,” Kevin whispers; “We’ll do this somewhere proper.”

“Yes,” Connor whines, hands twisting into Kevin’s robes; “Please.”

*

That night, Kevin gives it one last try “Expecto Patronum!” but this time there aren’t even sparks. It worries him, because Neeley returns with a bigger chip on his shoulder than he left with.

Kevin isn’t surprised. It’s the first Christmas Neeley’s had without his father, so emotions were bound to be high. And they still are, by the look of things. Unlike Kevin, who only _feels_ a little older, Neeley looks as though he’s aged fifteen years. There are shadows beneath both eyes and lines around his mouth, like he’s spent a decade scowling.  Sometimes, Kevin wants to tell Neeley his father would want him to be happy but does not know if that’s true. For all Kevin knows, the man was just like Mr Price – angry, cold, and pigheaded. It wouldn’t be surprising, considering what his son is like. Even before his father passed away, Neeley was a miserable git.  Not much has changed, aside from his anger being directed solely at Kevin, now; as opposed to at anyone who looks at him funny. 

When Neeley strolls into the common room after breakfast, Kevin tries to make himself very small in hopes Neeley will not see him. He does, of course; and the second their gazes meet, Neeley marches over, pulling out his wand. Kevin lets him.  

“Whatever you’re going to do, just do it,” he says. 

“Oh, I will,” Neeley threatens, firing a wordless spell to shatter the lamp beside Kevin. “That’s a promise.”

Glass gets in Kevin’s hair and on his clothes, pricking his fingers when he moves to brush them off. “Bloody, perfect,” he sighs, sucking the blood from his fingers. Neeley watches him, hexing the hand from Kevin’s mouth when he does not get more of a reaction.  

“Neeley,” Kevin says, closing his hand into a fist. It hurts, but he’s been hurt worse, before. “I’m sorry for what happened to your father. I _am_. But it wasn’t my fault.” He thinks Connor would be proud of this weak attempt at diplomacy, regardless it has no effect.

“How many times do we have to go over this, Price? _I don’t care_.” Neeley narrows his eyes and speaks slowly, as though Kevin could never understand him, otherwise; “ _You’re_ here, and _he’s_ not.”

Idly, Kevin wonders if he’s about to die. It would be so easy: one _Avada Kedavra_ and they could put this mess to rest. He wonders how Connor would take it. If Connor would miss him. Kevin likes to think so but would rather not know for sure. So, reaching into his pocket, he carefully takes hold of his wand. Neeley is too busy sneering to notice.

“Maybe,” Kevin suggests; “We can talk about this.”

For a second, Neeley looks confused; then he laughs, pressing the tip of his wand to Kevin’s throat. “Or,” he says; “We can fight about this.”

“We _have_ been,” Kevin says, impatiently. “What good has it done? You’re still mad, and I’m still bored.”

 “Bored?” Neeley laughs, again, then pulls his wand back. “Then, I guess I’ll have to make things more interesting.”

*

“Interesting, how?” Connor jabs at an Asphodel root with his pestle, eyes narrowed and focused. Kevin thinks he needs to put a bit more strength into it but keeps the thought to himself. “And _why_ can’t we get this stuff already ground?” 

“Well it’s not like he told me.” Kevin rolls his eyes; “What sense would that make?” He stares down into his mortar, gently touching the finely ground root. Slughorn has been leisurely strolling about the classroom, checking everyone’s progress. So far, Hufflepuff has gained twenty House points, while Slytherin has lost ten, thanks to Schrader trying to grind the root with his teeth and nearly cutting his tongue in half. The boy is daft, and Kevin feels sorry for him. He gives everything his all, but always falls a little short. Kind of like Connor, honestly, at least when it comes to potions.

Wanting to gain back some points, Kevin swaps mortars with Connor, quickly working to fix Connor’s mess.  “In the grand scheme of things, Neeley is harmless. He’s a bully, sure, but he’s not very creative. Not when it comes to bothering me, anyway.”

The past few days have been evidence of that. Neeley has resorted to _Muggle Tricks_ , as Kevin likes to call them. Take last night, for example: past two in the morning, Kevin woke up to find his hands in a bowl of warm water. _You’re supposed to be pissing yourself_ , Neeley had growled, looking disappointed when Kevin woke up with bone-dry sheets. _God, I hate Muggles_!

Kevin is quite fond of Muggles, since their tricks don’t seem to work on him.

“If you say so,” Connor says, not sounding the least bit convinced. “I think I’d feel better, though, if you’d meet in the library every evening after dinner. We can make out,” he says, in a weak attempt to appease him; “in the Herbology section; and I can see for myself you’re alright.”

Kevin frowns; “I always do homework after dinner.”

“Do it after we make out.” Connor subtly brushes their hands together. “Please? No other time will work.” And then Connor is doing that _thing_ Kevin hates. His eyes are wide and pleading; soft and wanting. Kevin can’t resist Connor, when he makes his eyes go funny like that. It’s a cruel trick that he’ll probably always fall for.

“Oh, all right,” he concedes. Kevin lowers his voice; “But we’ll be doing way more than making out.”

“Oh?” Connor looks pleased. “Like what, exactly?”

“Like _homework_ ,” Kevin chides, pulling his hand away. “You’re barely passing this class, not to mention how rubbish you are at Defense. Honestly, sometimes I think you’re _trying_ to be horrible.”

“I’m not,” Connor says, quickly. He looks upset, more at himself than at Kevin. “I’m just distracted. All this Neeley business has me on edge.”

“ _You_? It’s me he’s after, and I’m still passing class. Top marks, I’ll have you know.” Kevin beams, squaring his shoulders. “You should study more, instead of trying to accost me at every turn.”

“Yeah,” Connor says, ducking his head. “Maybe I should.”

*

Connor is impossible. Four days later, Kevin tries to get out of their nightly library kiss-fest by asking nicely; “I’m _tired_ , alright? I woke up with something called _shaving foam_ in my hair and ink on my face. Connor, he drew a dick on my forehead! It took hours to get it off; hours I should have spent sleeping.”   

“You can sleep in the library,” Connor says, transfiguring his dinner plate into a pillow. The other Ravenclaws looks at him funny. “I’ll watch you. It won’t be creepy at all.”

After telling a little white lie “fine, whatever” Kevin returns to his dinner, only to tip toe past the library afterwards, with his wand out - ready to hex Connor in the arse if he so much as even _tries_ to lure him in with the promise of Jelly Slugs and sex. But for some reason, the thought makes his mouth water, and Kevin finds himself sauntering into the library, anyway, feeling rather defeated.

“I hate you,” he complains, slouching in one of the chairs. Connor hands him a fistful of Jelly Slugs, which Kevin shoves into his mouth. He honestly didn’t think he could do it, but since Connor is watching him, he wanted to show off.

Connor doesn’t look that impressed. “No, you don’t,” he says, sounding as though he knows this for a fact. “You hate your inability to refuse anything sweet. Be it me, or those Jelly Slugs.”

“It’s mostly the Jelly Slugs,” Kevin says, around a mouthful of candy. “Since they can’t pester me.”

“You say that now, but wait until that handful is in your stomach, wriggling about, making you want to puke.” Connor frowns; “Like every other time you’ve shoveled in that much.”

“I can’t help it.” Kevin shrugs; “I’m weak.”

Connor rolls his eyes, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He’s staring over Kevin’s shoulder, somewhat blankly. It’s a look he’s worn for the past couple of days, here and there, when he thinks Kevin is not paying attention. But Kevin is always paying attention; and people don’t act this weird, without reason.

“When are you going to tell me what you’re thinking about?” Kevin drags a thumb over the corner of his mouth, wiping away a dribble of colorful spit.

“Never,” Connor says, as he always does. “You can’t know. It would be bad if you did.”

“Well, isn’t that ominous.” Kevin pouts; “And unfair. You make me tell you everything.”

“No,” Connor corrects, rolling his eyes. “I _ask_ you, too, and you willingly do so.”

“Not anymore.” Kevin crosses his arms, turning in his chair so they are no longer facing one another. He is acting petulant, as he often does when he does not get his way. “So, there.”

“Well, you’ve certainly told _me_ , haven’t you?” Connor sighs, leaning across the table. He grasps Kevin’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I’m thinking about how much I like you,” he says. It almost sounds like the truth. “And how I can’t quite picture my life without you in it.”

“Sop.” Kevin grins. He lifts a hand to rest over Connor’s, before turning back around in his chair. Connor’s eyes look sad. “Well, barring anything real unfortunate, I don’t think you’ll ever have to. The unlimited supply of Jelly Slugs is too good.” Kevin lowers his voice; “As is the sex.”

Connor makes a sound, like he wants to cry but can’t. “Hey - I was only joking about the Jelly Slugs,” Kevin says. “The truth is: you’ll never have to, because I like you, too. Alright?”

Connor nods; “Promise me, something.” Kevin watches as Connor swallows, admiring the lines of his throat. “Promise me you’ll come here tomorrow. Right after lunch. I know you have Quidditch practice but skip it. _Please_.” He’s starting to look rather nervous, which makes Kevin nervous, because Quidditch practice is not that big of a deal. But when he opens his mouth to ask why, Connor shakes his head, adamantly, refusing to tell. “Just promise me,” he says again. “Kevin, please.”

“Fine, alright?” Kevin says, holding up his hands in surrender; “I promise.” But Connor does not look appeased.

*

Skipping Quidditch practice is no great loss from Kevin’s perspective. He doesn’t like the game, so coming up with an excuse is easy. Sometimes, Kevin wonders why he just doesn’t quit. His father forced him to try out, but he doesn’t come to any games and hasn’t cared about anything Kevin’s done since he completed second year. 

“Tell Neeley I have a headache.” Kevin smiles weakly at Schrader, trying to look pained. Fortunately, none of his Housemates pay him enough mind to notice when he’s lying. 

“Yeah, sure,” Schrader says, pulling on his boots. “He’ll be happy to hear it, I’m sure.” Then he smiles, like that’s somehow funny. Maybe it is. Kevin isn’t sure what constitutes as funny or cruel, anymore. They’ve become interchangeable.  “Later.”

“Bye.” Kevin watches him go, feeling relieved he didn’t have to come up with anything better, even though an: _I don’t feel like going_ would have been more than enough. Lying makes things more exciting, though. It’s gives him an air of mystery, like Connor has about him. It might not be as interesting, but it’s better than being predictable. Predictable is boring, and he does not want Connor getting bored.

So, as he meanders his way to the library, Kevin tries to think of other ways to make himself more interesting. Most of them involve the two of them wearing very little clothes, but some of them are sensible – like magicking the color of his hair; or becoming a professional Gobstone player. 

Too bad he’s rubbish at Gobstones.

He is one staircase away from the library, wracking his brain for more manageable ideas, when he feels it: an overwhelming sense of peace that steals all manner of thought from his head and keeps him calm as his surroundings turn vague and blur around the edges. It’s a little like walking through a fog, he thinks, and a bit like falling asleep.  

*

 _Good luck_.

Connor turns the thought over in his head, again and again, when Kevin does not show up.

 _Good luck. Good luck_. _Good luck_.

*

Something warm seeps between Kevin’s fingers. It feels a bit like bathwater, but Kevin knows it’s not, because when he takes a breath his lungs fill with air.   

There’s laughter, somewhere in the distance, but it’s a poor disguise for the grief it tries to mask. _Don’t cry_ , his father always says. _Don’t you dare cry_. Kevin wonders if Mr. Neeley said the same. He wants to ask. The words are crawling up his throat – _are we really all that different_ \- but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a sob.

“What did I tell you?” Neeley spits, firing a hex at Kevin. It hits him in the shoulder, and Kevin cries out. “You’re _just_ like your father. The only difference now, is that you look like him, too.”

Kevin’s fingers press against his arm, into wounded flesh that burns beneath his touch. It’s pure pain from his wrist to the bend of his elbow, and he knows without looking what that means because he knows what it feels like. “Accio wand,” he chokes out, releasing his grip to catch it. His hand is trembling as he dares to look down. “Aguamenti.”

Water streams from the tip of his wand to wash the blood from his skin. It hurts, but the pain pales in comparison to ache in his heart when he sees the Dark Mark on his skin.   

“Do you have _any idea_ ,” Neeley asks, stepping closer and crouching down. He trails his wand along Kevin’s arm; “just how _satisfying_ it was to watch you do that to yourself?” Digging his wand into Kevin’s injury, Neeley grins as Kevin writhes.

From their first introduction, Connor had Neeley pegged for someone mad, and it seems his friend was right. There is nothing sane about this. Nothing normal. Kevin _understands_ being angry and feeling betrayed. He _understands_ wanting to stop all the hurt. He can even understand needing someone to take that anger out on. But not like this. Never like this. This, he _can’t_ understand.

Kevin closes his eyes and thinks about Connor. He remembers - _you don’t have to get into trouble. Only he does_ – then allows himself to forget. 

“Relashio!”

He scrambles to his feet as Neeley is driven back, grabbing for Neeley’s wand. Once they’re both in his hands, Kevin succumbs to the power he yields.

Neeley looks nervous, and Kevin thrives.  “I told you to leave me alone!” He cries, stumbling a bit. His head aches, and his arm is seeping blood, again. “Why couldn’t you just leave me, alone?”

If Neeley had, he’d be in the library with Connor, right now, as opposed to standing here. They’d be making plans for Summer, regardless its six months away. Kevin wants him to meet Arnold; wants Connor to see him outside of this place, because he isn’t the same when he isn’t being bothered. He’s _better_.

“Our fathers are the same,” Kevin continues, voice wavering. “If it hadn’t been yours, it would have been mine; and it _should_ have been mine, I _know_ that. But it wasn’t, and that’s _not my fault_!” Bright light jets from Kevin’s wand, levitating Neeley.  He hangs upside down, tears trailing down his forehead and falling to the floor in audible drops. Kevin walks towards him, stopping once they’re almost nose-to-nose.

Kevin lifts his wand. He doesn’t mean to. “Give me _one reason_ why I shouldn’t kill you, right now.”  He could never; _would_ never. But he wants Neeley to feel scared; wants him to feel as though he owes Kevin his life, once Kevin lets him down, so they can put this mess behind them – but they do not get the chance.   

“Expelliarmus!”

Kevin stumbles back as his wand is stolen; and again, as Neeley’s follows suit. Connor stands behind him, eyes wild. His hair is matted to his forehead in sweat, chest heaving with each ragged breath he takes. Connor must have been running. “What happened,” he asks, ending Kevin’s Levicorpus. Neeley falls to the ground with a sickening thud. Connor’s gaze lowers to Kevin’s forearm. “Oh, Kevin.”

Dropping to his knees, Kevin’s stomach ends up on the floor. He is not a terrible person; _he is not_. But everyone has their breaking point. This just happened to be Kevin’s.   

“I told you to behave!” Connor cries, kneeling in front of him. “This is _not behaving_!”

Kevin clings to him and sobs into Connor’s robes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It hurts.” He does not mean his forearm, but Connor tends to it, anyway, his touch steady and careful; purposeful in its intention. Kevin’s eyes follow the slow glide of Connor’s fingers, watching as his flesh knits itself back together. “Connor – “

Connor presses a finger to Kevin’s lips, then to his own, before standing. Neeley is back on his feet.

The struggle is physical this time. Kevin watches, helplessly, as Connor and Neeley wrestle for their wands, limbs hitting against stone in sickening cracks as they do. “Please stop,” Connor pleads; “Please don’t make me hurt you.”

Neeley barks out a laugh, managing to get Connor pinned beneath him. His knee digs into Connor’s chest as he reclaims his wand, pointing it at Kevin.

What happens next is the sort of thing Kevin will remember for the rest of his life. Neeley has a curse, halfway out of his mouth “ _Avada!”_ when Connor grabs Kevin’s wand and quickly shouts in panic “Sectumsempra!” refusing him the chance to finish.

 

It’s powerful magic. Dangerous. With one word, Connor saves Kevin’s life and nearly takes another. Kevin watches as Connor scrambles to kneel beside Neeley, wand pointed at Neeley’s abdomen as he mutters an incantation. The boy is bleeding through his clothes, gasping for breath and moaning, writing, soaking the floor with his blood.

“Connor,” Kevin says. 

“Not now.” Connor’s covers his face with a hand; he’s crying. “Not ever.”

*

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Connor says, from his chair beside Kevin’s hospital bed. “It’s terribly boring.”

“Sorry,” Kevin says, and finds that he means it. This _is_ partly his fault, after all. “You don’t have to stay.”

Connor hums; crossing, then uncrossing, his legs. “You were Imperiused, you know.” He nods towards Kevin’s arm; “Neeley landed himself in Azkaban for that, not to mention he tried to kill you. Two Unforgivables in the span of an hour.” Connor tuts; “And he thinks _you’re_ like _your_ father.”  

“He had every right to be upset,” Kevin says. “My father turned his father in to the Ministry for leniency and was given the Kiss. It should have been mine,” he admits. “His father didn’t really do much. Just bore the Mark and talked a lot of nonsense; unlike _my_ father, who killed who knows how many people, in the name of that monster.”

“I feel bad for him,” Connor admits.

“Yeah,” Kevin agrees. “Me, too.”

With a tired smile, Connor reaches to smooth back Kevin’s hair, making room for a kiss to his forehead. “I’m glad you’re alive.”  

Kevin smiles, reaching for Connor’s hand. “Me too.”

They sit in silence for a while, Kevin drifting in and out of sleep. Whenever Connor tries to slip away, he wakes up. Kevin does not want Connor to leave. It’s important that he stays.  “Connor,” he yawns. “I need to tell you something…”

“I know.” Connor smiles, giving Kevin’s hand a squeeze; “Tell me later? I have to go, but I _will_ see you again. Very soon, I promise.”

But Connor does not come back to the hospital wing. Kevin spends a lot of time staring up at the ceiling, wondering why. Arnold sent an owl, encouraging him not to worry.

_He’s probably just tired, Kev. Whenever I did that thing I did that I’m not supposed to talk about, I was exhausted for days. And those were just birds! Neeley is a real, live, human person._

Kevin chooses to believe Arnold, because he does not want to believe he has to live in a world without Connor. He does not even want to think about it. They fit so well together, like two parts of one whole, and Connor _likes_ – or at least he did - all the little things that make Kevin, _Kevin_ ; like his insatiable sweet tooth and how he brushes his teeth with a Muggle toothbrush, instead of using magic, because it feels nicer.

No one understands him like Connor. Not even Arnold.

The thought carries him back to the dungeons, once Madam Pomphrey finally lets him go; and he is so lost in it, Kevin almost does not see him.

Connor is walking towards Kevin, swaying like he’s had one too many tankards of Butterbeer. “Connor?” Kevin frowns, then rushes towards him, wrapping Connor up in a hug. He smells a bit musty, like an old person’s attic, and there’s cobwebs in his hair. Kevin does not care enough to ask; all he cares about is saying two simple things: “I’m sorry,” he says, against Connor’s ear. “I really missed you.”

“That’s a funny thing to be sorry about.” Connor smiles against Kevin’s neck. Kevin can feel it. “I’m right here.”

 

**V**

**Present Day  
**

Time is a funny thing. Connor knows that now.

It takes less than a second to move forward ten years.  He is the same. His room is the same. But something is different. It isn’t as dark, or as messy, or as empty. There’s a rug beneath his feet, instead of splintered hardwoods; and there are curtains over windows that are no longer broken.

There’s also a pillow on the floor, and he doesn’t remember ever wanting a dog, but knows someone who did/does; whichever.  The air smells like cider and Christmas pudding, and there is laughter drifting in from outside the bedroom door.

The only thing that seems to have remained unchanged is the bottle of firewhisky on the table beside Connor’s bed. He grabs it, desperately needing a drink. It’s gone in one swallow, and Connor is warm.

The Time Turner is still around his neck. He tucks it into his shirt and pulls on a sweater, so no one will see it or feel it, if they hug him. And, _God_ , he hopes there will be someone out there to hug him.

Dredging up some courage, Connor pads across the room. The rug is soft and tickles between his toes. It’s not to his taste. Neither are the glass phials of who-knows-what upon the dresser. There’s a book beside them: _Potions, Herbs, Oils, and Brews_ and Connor’s heart nearly climbs out of his throat. He’s rubbish at potions but knows two people who aren’t. He refuses to guess whose they are.    

It takes a few tries, but eventually Connor wills himself to pull open the bedroom door. He stares into the living room, at the back of two heads. One blonde, one not. There’s a Muggle television out there now, for some reason, and _House Hunters_ is on. He recognizes it from when he lived in America.

He takes a deep breath, then: “…Kevin?”

Kevin Price, looking older, but no less handsome than he was a decade ago, turns around. He smiles. His teeth are blue. There’s a Jelly Slug stuck to his forehead. “Hey, you’re awake,” he says, waving Connor over. “I was just introducing Mr Pureblood, here, to _Muggle Tee-Vee_.” Kevin bro-punches the shoulder of Connor’s ex-lover, earning himself a sneer.

Connor’s heart flips over.

“You _are_ aware that you, yourself, are a Pureblood, yes?” The man rolls his eyes, dramatically. Unsurprisingly, he manages to make that look sophisticated. "If so, then it shouldn't come as any surprise that I don't -

“I have something for you!” Connor does not know why he’s shouting. Probably, because he does not want to listen to another one of his ex-lover’s diatribes, when he’s just altered the course of their lives. It’s a heady feeling, and he hopes he hasn’t irreparably damaged anything. “It’s nothing, really, but I wanted to thank you. You know, for – “

The man shakes his head, almost smiling. Connor does not know if that means he remembers or is just amused by Connor’s inelegant fumbling.

“Right,” Connor says, reaching into his pocket. “Here.”

Connor passes over Harry Potter’s Chocolate Frog card, and his ex-lover almost looks touched. “Potter,” the man says, nearly caressing it, before realizing he’s being watched. His cheeks take on a pink tinge, and he slides it into his pocket. Connor can only imagine what he’ll use it for. “Thank you. How…thoughtful.”

Kevin is gaping at Connor. The Slug is on his cheek now. Connor watches as his ex-lover makes a disgusted face and pulls it off, flinging it towards a window, where it sticks.

“I can’t believe you’re parting with that!” Kevin laughs, sounding almost relieved, before turning towards Connor’s ex-lover. “In seventh year, I transfigured myself a pair of glasses like Harry Potter’s and wore them for Connor on his birthday.” Kevin makes circles with his thumbs and forefingers and holds them up to his eyes; “He had a huge Harry Potter fetish during school.”

“Did he really?” The man smirks, catching Connor’s gaze. “How interesting.”

Connor does not remember Kevin doing that, but then again, there are ten years of other memories he has no recollection of, either. It seems either way he’s lost out on ten years with Kevin. But at least now, that’s all he’ll have lost out on. Besides, Kevin has them; so, eventually, Connor will, too. One way or the other. But for now, it’s enough to sit on the couch between his lover and ex-lover, relaxing into their touch as they both lean against him.

Connor feels like the luckiest guy in the whole, entire wizarding world.

But that’s probably because he is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i would really like to thank my friends neverbirds and elderkevinmckinley for supporting me throughout the writing process! you being there for me, means so much!
> 
> i'd also like to thank those of you who take the time to read this! it's so very much appreciated, and i'd love to know what you think :)
> 
> i'm on tumblr: elderxprice


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